Card Captor Vigilante
by The Jolt Master
Summary: Officer John Harrison and Striker return to track down a vigilante with mysterious powers before he invokes The Final Judgment.
1. The Angel of Vengeance

I first want to apologize for the poor formatting of this fanfic. Since fanfiction.net pulls out all the HTML codes and rips up the codes for .doc files, my story doesn't come out looking all that great. I mean, it even replaces the three periods (an ellipses) with a single period. I'm not faulting Xing for this, he does what he has to do to keep his site intact. I understand that completely.  
  
So, if you want to see how this story is supposed to look, please go to: , select Crossovers from the upper right corner, then find my name: The Jolt Master  
  
- Jolt  
  
Card Captor Vigilante  
  
By The Jolt Master  
  
Foreword:  
  
I'm not wholly familiar with how CCS works. I've seen the show a few times and enjoyed the animation and creativity involved with the Clow Cards and the costuming.  
  
As a result, I've taken some very significant creative liberties in writing this story. If I do my job right as the author, how things work will be explained in the story. I've managed to research the Cards themselves, so it shouldn't be too "out there." Just keep an open mind and let the story take you in.  
  
But just so you understand, there is nothing even remotely cutesy, girly, or kawaii about this story. This story is a rated R crime drama. The main character is a 26 year old Hispanic male, not Sakura or any of the other CardCaptor characters. If you're a purist, just stop reading here. You'll hate this fanfic and there's no sense in getting yourself frustrated and venting it on me. If you are not old enough to read this, please stop here. I really don't want to hear from your parents. ^.~  
  
The lyrics I've incorporated is not something I would normally do. However, I felt this particular song really chimed right with the story. Here's the link for the music, if you wish to hear it:  
  
Enjoy the story. I look forward to your feedback.  
  
-- The Jolt Master  
  
I fear you.  
  
Your silence.  
  
Your blindness.  
  
See what you want to see.  
  
In darkness One kindness One moment  
  
Tell me what you believe  
  
I believe in nothing never really had to in regards to your life rumors that are not true. Who's defending evil? Surely never I. Who would be the witness should you chance to die?  
  
Father, can you hear me? This is not how it was meant to be.  
  
--- Chance by Savatage: Holding the Rain  
  
Part I -- The Angel of Vengeance  
  
"Él será el rayo más brillante de la esperanza Los Ángeles ha visto siempre, pero él también será su ángel más oscuro."  
  
"He will be the brightest ray of hope Los Angeles has ever seen, but he will also be its darkest angel."  
  
His uncle Rudolfo's words echoed in the mind of Esteban Ramero as he looked down on the City of Angels from his perch atop what used to be known as the First Interstate Tower. He remembered his uncle and mentor saying them to his aunt when he finally left their home at age twenty-two. His destiny as this "dark angel" may have been chosen for him, but he was in control of his powers. His mind played that pivotal night to him; it felt like yesterday.  
  
****  
"Mamá, mamá! Mirá! Look what I have on the backs of my hands. I  
have these cool white stars with circles around them!"  
  
He was eight years old and had burst in through the front door with  
his Tío Rudolfo and Tía Rosa, searching the house to find his parents.  
As he turned the corner to the living room, the sudden chill of the  
outdoors blew past him. His excitement faltered when he saw two thin  
black men in their late twenties. Both were tall, but the shorter of  
the two looked very anxious and was holding the taller one, the meaner-  
looking one, by his arm. The boy looked down to see the broken bodies  
of his parents. Their blood stained the beige carpeting. He sucked  
in his breath as he gazed in horror; his innocence lost as he looked  
back fearfully to the two intruders.  
  
"C'mon man, let's go!" the shorter one urged.  
  
"The kid.he's a witness. We need to take him out too." The tall man  
grinned evilly as he stepped forward. Esteban's aunt turned the  
corner at that moment.  
  
"Oh, there you are, mijo, I - oh dear God!" She looked at the bodies,  
then to the men and let out a blood-curdling scream. The men swiftly  
left the place through the broken door behind them. Rudolfo came up  
quickly and passed Esteban and Rosa to check the bodies. The woman  
grabbed the boy and held him, turning him away from the death and  
destruction. He quickly turned back when his uncle made an  
announcement:  
  
"They're still alive."  
  
Soon after, the police and an ambulance arrived, taking them to the  
local hospital. For two agonizing weeks, he watched them slowly die  
in the Intensive Care Unit. First his mother left him, then his  
father.  
  
"Te amaré siempre," "I will always love you," he whispered, moments  
before one of his internal organs ruptured and he screamed in  
agonizing pain. The emergency team arrived moments later, but his  
father had already joined his mother. Their killers, Aaron Temple and  
Matt Starkin, as confirmed by the description given to them by his  
aunt, were nowhere to be found.  
  
****  
  
His father's screams melted into the wind as it whistled past his ears. For the ten thousandth time, his father died. The images of blood and horror mixed with the glaring evil of the killers invaded his dreams for years on end. During that time, the years of training with his aunt and uncle to master the power of the Clow Cards hardened his resolve. The martial arts training gave him the idea to become a hunter and protector. It was this that drove him to seek justice.  
  
His gaze became more intense as he watched for anything that might be trouble. South Central. East L.A. The Mission District. Chinatown. Downtown at night. All were breeding grounds for gangs, thieves, drug dealers, organized crime, rapists and murderers. There were so many of them. For four years he had taken vengeance on the evil that infected this city like a deadly cancer, doing his best to protect the innocent and punish the unlawful.  
  
But he was determined to find the bastards that killed his parents and impose The Final Judgment upon them.  
  
He held a copper-colored card, a Clow Card, that had a faint red glow to it, matching the fiery red glow of the pentagrams on the backs of his hands. Looking at the card itself would have revealed a powerful brown- feathered bird with a white head, sharp yellow beak, and stern round eyes. Under it, mixing in with the linear mosaic background, a banner below it read in capital letters: EAGLE SIGHT  
  
He caught sight of something. His eyes narrowed on it as he put the card back into his sleeve and the glow faded from the card and his hands. The jumpsuit he wore was a simple white outfit, covering him from head to toe. The outfit fit him rather loosely and the sleeves billowed out to accommodate the Clow Cards he carried with him. His black hair and tanned face were covered to mask his identity. Only his intense dark brown eyes were visible as he sought to protect the innocent.  
  
He pulled out another card from his right sleeve. This one had the same mosaic design; only it had a picture of a large pair of white feathered wings. The banner below it read: FLIGHT. The parallel markings of the black pentagrams blazed with a fiery red light again as he incanted its power. Silver mists swirled around him quickly. He leapt from the roof as a pair of massive white wings protruded through pre-cut slits on the back of his costume and spread for flight. He picked up an unfathomable speed as he dove for his target like a huge bird of prey.  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
"Stupid jerk."  
  
Lorena Thompson muttered this as she walked home in her silver high heels and matching sequined dress that stopped mid-thigh. She also had a small matching strapless purse in her hand. Her outfit was in stark contrast to her dark ebony skin and long pinned up black hair. She was certainly a lovely young black woman. Her misfortune this evening was her date, who had kicked her out his car in a bad part of town.  
  
"'Ooo.I'd never dated a black girl before. I wonder what sex with you would be like,'" she mimicked as she came to more familiar surroundings now. "Stupid white bread jerk."  
  
She had already walked about a mile before reaching a construction area. Tall plywood walls surrounded the new building being made. It was rare that any sort of work would get done in this part of town, but it made her happy that there were some improvements being made near her neighborhood.  
  
What did not make her happy were the three guys, two Latinos and one white, sitting on a bus bench watching her. She was already walking in the middle of the street, since there was no traffic. She picked up her gait as she passed them, praying they would just ogle her and nothing more. Ogling was fine. Catcalls were okay. Beyond that.  
  
"Hey sweet thing."  
  
Just keep movin', girl, she thought.  
  
"Hey baby. Don't be ignoring us. We need some lovin'."  
  
Yeah.I'd love to kick your sorry ass to shut you up.  
  
Behind her, she could hear the shuffling of sneakers, then the quickened pace of the three guys jogging over to her. Before she could do anything, she was surrounded. The white guy stood to her right, the Latinos were to her front and left. The white guy wore some gray baggy pants and a loose black sweatshirt to cover his thin frame. His black and silver Raiders cap was slightly askew on his head. The Latino on the left was of average build, wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, blue windbreaker and a red bandana around his head. The one in front was dressed the same, but substituted the bandana for a mean, almost predatory, look. Her heart raced with fear. This was already getting out of control. The mean-looking Latino spoke. His gravelly voice sent chills down her spine.  
  
"We definitely.need some lovin'."  
  
The fear in her heart made itself known on her face as the three guys took a half-step closer to her. The white guy and the Red Latino had big grins on their faces.  
  
"I sure like my women like I like my soda," the white guy said. "Black and sparkly."  
  
The two guys laughed, but mean one did not. His eyes focused hard on her. They were filled with an almost animal excitement; a wolf ready for the kill.  
  
She took a half-step back as her eyes darted quickly between them. Most of her attention went to The Predator, because she was not sure she would be able to fight him off.  
  
Behind her, she heard someone audibly clear his throat.  
  
She did not turn around, but the guys turned and looked past her to see who coughed. She saw all three with surprised looks on their faces, then Red Latino and the white guy started laughing hysterically. The white guy spoke up first.  
  
"Yo man. The Kung-Fu Midget Theater is down the road!"  
  
"Nah man, look how loose the sleeves are. He's a sailor!" the Red Latino said, giving the last word an effeminate tone.  
  
The two guys continued to laugh it up as the vigilante stared intently at them. The mask covered his gritted teeth as he geared his mind for a battle. The Predator seemed to recognize this, but said nothing nor laughed with his friends. The dark hero drew out a card from inside his left sleeve. He held the card in both hands and focused on its power. The design of the card showed a muscular barbarian armed with a large double- edged axe and a small shield. The fighter could almost be heard making his battle cry as he readied to charge over the banner that read the words he whispered quietly:  
  
"Warrior Strength."  
  
The pentagrams glowed a fierce red as the card seemed to catch fire. His hands absorbed the card, leaving a thin puff of smoke. Beneath his costume, his skin rippled quickly with the power and caused his body to expand. Within seconds, it was done. The loose outfit now fitted him tightly and he appeared to be almost six inches taller. Without the costume, he possessed the well-defined physique of a body builder. His muscles were like coiled springs, ready to strike with the speed of a rattlesnake and the power of an enraged tiger.  
  
The guys stopped laughing and Lorena turned around to see why. The fear left her as the rumors she had heard about him were true. He did exist.  
  
Without warning, the dark champion charged quickly at Red Latino. He tried to throw a punch, but the vigilante caught his fist and crushed his hand. The very loud popping and crunching of bones made the hand's owner scream out in pain. He continued his momentum and punched him the gut. The force of the blow sent the man crashing through the plywood wall of the construction site twenty feet away.  
  
The vigilante spun quickly to face The Predator; the one that Lorena feared the most. Before the man could react, the vigilante was upon him. He grabbed his shoulder and punched him hard the solar plexus. This immediately crippled him and he became unable to catch his breath.  
  
The dark hero's gaze then turned on the white guy, who was visibly shaking with terror. His hands were up in front of him, pleading with him for mercy. But the vigilante would have none of it. He lunged for the white guy, grabbed his baggy sweatshirt with one hand, turned to face the construction site, and flung the hapless man towards the plywood wall, like a child might throw a rag doll. Another thunderous crash echoed on the empty street as a matching hole was made in the plywood wall.  
  
He turned back to the crippled predator, who had just barely managed to get his wind back. The dark hero grabbed his short hair and forced the man to look up at him. The feral glare in the vigilante's eyes terrified him and made him too afraid to make any noise. A steely voice came from beneath the facemask.  
  
"You like to hurt girls? Does it make you feel strong and powerful?"  
  
The vigilante let go of his hair, then quickly grabbed him with both hands underneath the collar of his windbreaker and t-shirt. He easily lifted him up and brought his face within mere inches of his own. The man shook visibly and his breathing was hurried and shallow, like a fish out of water. Their eyes locked; the Predator's were large with fear, the Angel's were narrow with vengeance. He spoke again.  
  
"Now.you're my bitch."  
  
Lorena watched with an almost morbid curiosity. She had unconsciously taken a few steps back, but wanted to see what happened next. As the dark hero started to mercilessly beat the man, she did not really see the fight. She heard the fight. Thunderous claps from delivered blows. Crunched bones followed by horrific screams of pain. Blood splattering on the ground. The crescendo of this opera of brutality was the heavy thud from a side of beef slamming into a nearby metal lamppost. The noise it made was like from a muffled bell and the fight was over.  
  
As she gazed at her would-be attacker, he did not look like a man anymore, but a large, bloody puddle of flesh. When the paramedics arrived twenty minutes later, they had to sedate the Predator because of the excruciating pain of all the broken bones he had. He could not even be identified for three days due to the excessive bruising and swelling of his face.  
  
The dark champion walked over to the pile of flesh and wiped his bloodied hands clean on the clothing. He turned and walked over to Lorena and spoke with an unsettling politeness.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
Her breathing accelerated as the vigilante spoke to her. An odd sense of arousal washed over her quickly, which made her feel flustered, so she could only nod in the affirmative.  
  
"Good," he replied, "I'll take you home. Where do you live?"  
  
She still had not found her voice yet. The continued flustering made her feel light-headed. Finally, she managed to wrestle some control over her mind.  
  
"I live at 428 103rd Street. Apartment one," she said, her voice feeling unreal to her. She randomly wondered what type of car he drove.  
  
"I know where that is," he replied as he took out a card from his right sleeve. It was the Flight card, but she could not see the design. He focused for a moment and the pentagrams glowed red once again. The card dissipated into a large, thick silver mist that swirled around him, then started to form something behind him. Wings took shape from the mist, then became feathers. He stretched the wings out and now appeared as his namesake: The Angel of Vengeance.  
  
Lorena blinked a couple times and promptly fainted.  
  
The next thing she knew, she was looking up at the ceiling of her apartment, having fallen through the front door when her mother opened it. The cold floor had shaken her from her fainted state and she remembered what she saw. She let out a long, bone-chilling scream.  
  
An hour later, she finally had enough courage to call 911.  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
The sun started to rise as Ramero shook his keys to find the right one to his apartment. As he unlocked the door and pushed it open, he found his messy apartment undisturbed. A few boxes of Chinese take-out along with a few Sunday editions of the Los Angeles Times were scattered on a table to the right. Directly in front of him, his unmade bed and a TV sat quietly, waiting to be used again. A curtained window was there, starting at the foot of the bed. Filtered sunlight provided the only illumination for the apartment. The left side of the small apartment had a couple shelves of books and a well-worn Bowflex exercise machine. While most of the dirty laundry sat in the corner, near the table, there were a few scattered items throughout the apartment.  
  
Ramero closed the door behind him and took off his street clothes. He casually tossed them to the floor, then carefully worked his way out of his white jumpsuit. Pulling one arm out of a sleeve, then the other, he did not spill any of the cards this time. He pushed the pants down and stepped out. As he hung up his costume in the closet to his immediate left, looking at his nude form would lead one to ponder his possible career options: fitness instructor, male model, maybe an exotic dancer. He was in his physical prime with a well-defined six pack of abs, strong, muscular arms, broad chest and shoulders, and toned legs.  
  
However, his life had a much darker agenda.  
  
After closing the closet door, he walked past the table to the kitchen. It was relatively clean, since he rarely cooked for himself. The money he had from the life insurance policies on his parents allowed him the luxury of always eating out or his aunt would cook him something when she visited. He grabbed an apple from the refrigerator, then walked over to his bed. He turned on the TV and the morning news started.  
  
"Good morning, Los Angeles! This is Sharon Tay with KTLA Channel 5 News. The top story of the day: Big drug bust! One of L.A.'s biggest Columbian drug lords was captured at ten minutes past 2am this morning. The captured drug lord is Vicente Villalobos-Rodriguez. He is noted as being the patriarch of the crime family known as The Dark Wolves on the streets of our fair city. He and his operations are responsible for the deaths of sixteen of LAPD's finest; three of which were direct assassinations when he declared war on them when the Los Angeles police broke up a child prostitution ring some three months ago. The forth man who was also a target of these assassinations, Officer John Harrison and his K-9 partner, Striker, will be awarded with Medals of Honor by Mayor Riordan, later this afternoon. This will also be followed by a touching speech about the two officers that were killed during the raid: Officer Janice Parker and her K- 9 partner, Jackson."  
  
"And now, stay tuned for other top stories, weather and sports, right here on KTLA Channel 5 News."  
  
"About damn time," he muttered as he finished off his apple. He had been following some sparse leads, but nothing turned up to stop the Dark Wolves. As the news blathered on about he events of the previous night, he opened the window next to him. The sounds of the children getting ready for school wafted in. He laid down and sleep quickly came to him and filled his mind with nightmares.  
  
****  
"He worships the Devil!"  
  
"I do not!" retorted Esteban, trying to cover the white pentagrams on  
his small nine-year old hands.  
  
"You do too. My mommy said so," replied Johnny Zontag. The bully  
stood six inches taller and fifteen pounds heavier. "She also said  
that Satanists sacrifice virgins and have sex with little boys.  
So.did your daddy have sex with you?"  
  
The statement shocked Esteban and the other kids laughed uproariously,  
even though half of them did not know what sex or virgins were. Fury  
filled his veins as he shoved Johnny.  
  
"Leave my father out of this!"  
  
Johnny barely budged as he pushed back, sending Esteban to the ground.  
More laughter ensued. Esteban only gritted his teeth as Johnny threw  
more verbal insults at him and further degraded his father. He  
reached into his jacket and drew the Warrior Strength Clow Card. He  
heard his uncle's voice, cautioning him, but it was clouded by the  
anger surging in his blood. He muttered the incantation and  
immediately he felt the card's power fill his tiny frame and his  
clothes went tight. The pentagrams glowed a bright white, frightening  
some of the kids into silence. Johnny was still laughing it up, even  
as Esteban stood up, seething with rage. His fists were balled up  
tightly as he glared at the bully. His voice was rigid.  
  
"Leave my father ALONE!"  
  
With that, he stepped forward and swung hard. The little fist  
connected with the bully's jaw and there was an audible crack as he  
screamed in agony. A swift kick to Johnny's groin stopped the  
screaming and brought forth painful tears as he dropped to his knees.  
Esteban pulled his fist back and smashed it squarely into Johnny's  
nose. Blood spurted everywhere as Johnny was laid out flat on his  
back, skidding to a stop after a few feet.  
  
The excitement of the fight quickly turned to terror as the pentagrams  
turned a fiery red. The smell of burning flesh filled the nostrils of  
the other kids and had Esteban screaming in pain. As quickly as it  
had started, it was over. Esteban looked at the backs of his hands  
through pain-filled tears while the other kids ran away in fear. The  
pentagrams glowed a pulsing, violent red.  
  
****  
  
Ramero woke with a start from the nightmare. He was breathing a bit hard as he looked at the pentagrams again for the hundredth thousandth time.  
  
Rage had tarnished the purity of the magic. The pentagrams were burned in black. 


	2. The Cavalry Is Called In

Part II -- The Cavalry Is Called In  
  
The dark, short-haired officer, dressed in his standard issue navy blue uniform of the Los Angeles Police Department, reviewed the documents in front of him. John Harrison pursed his mustached lips as he recalled the details of the Don Vicente bust last night. It still amazed him that he and his K-9 partner, Striker, had managed to take him down. He glanced at the floor where the large Arcanine snoozed quietly. Striker had saved his life several times and he smiled to himself at his good fortune by having him by his side. Later today, they were going to be awarded Medals of Honor by the mayor. He could not help but to smile.  
  
As Harrison filled out the report form on the bust, he knew that he could be interrupted at any moment, since he was covering the front desk.  
  
The desk itself was a dark mahogany color that was on a raised dais almost a foot above the main floor, so that the officer would have to look down at the person to discuss whatever the problem might be. So, he was pretty sure this high traffic spot would not let him get much of his report done. But he was needed there, so he did not complain.  
  
A couple walked in and looked about a bit nervously. The young looking woman was dressed in a professional looking outfit: navy blue blazer, matching mid-thigh skirt, white blouse, nylons, and black high heels. She also had dark rimmed glasses and fiery red hair, which was tied into a tight bun. The older looking man was dressed in a simple dark gray suit, white shirt and black tie. His hair was a salt and pepper color, but more salt. His moustache and goatee matched his hair color. They kept looking around at all the policemen, detectives and various people being interviewed, both citizens and criminals, then they saw Harrison sitting at the front desk.  
  
The couple tentatively approached the front desk while Harrison wrote down some notes. The man coughed politely to get his attention. The cop looked up from what he was doing, not looking too pleased, but not upset either.  
  
"May I help you?"  
  
"We, ah," the man started, looking at the woman, who returned the look. He looked back to the officer, his voice filled with a light uncertainty. "We ah, need to talk to someone."  
  
"Well, I'm right here," Harrison replied, looking a bit annoyed now, but noting that the man's voice sounded much younger than his apparent age. He guessed him to be wearing a costume of some sort, even though Halloween was a number of months away.  
  
"Yes, er, we can see that," he stammered, trying to compose himself as he appeared to be wrestling with some inner demon. The woman seemed to know what he was thinking and took up the reins.  
  
"We wish to see Giovanni go to jail," she blurted out. She took another breath, trying to calm her nerves. "He tried to kill us."  
  
At that moment, an Arcanine leaped up with both front paws landing on the desk. Several small streams of fire jetted out of his nose, as though that name inspired some sort of hatred within the almost regal hellhound. The officer turned on the pokémon.  
  
"Striker, get down. Now!"  
  
The pokémon complied and went back to being on all fours. He then turned to his other side and called across the room.  
  
"Jenny! We've got a couple of kids who want to talk about Giovanni."  
  
"Thanks Harrison," replied a slim brown-haired woman also dressed in the uniform of LAPD's finest. Harrison stepped away from the desk as she came over to talk with the disguised couple. He looked back to his report.  
  
"I know you two," she said, leaning on the front desk, her eyes narrowing a bit at them and her voice dropping. "Jessie James! You're Jessie and James of Team Rocket!"  
  
Before Harrison could turn and listen to the conversation, another voice called to him.  
  
"Harrison! I'd like to talk to you."  
  
The man who said that, Detective Jack Werden, was a gruff and heavy-set man, dressed in a simple gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. His badge was clipped to his belt and his .38 strapped to his left hip holster. His only encounter with him was over a girl named Anne Delane, who was a critical witness in identifying a key suspect named Dario "El Perro" Villalobos. El Perro had forced Delane to do hardcore prostitution after his henchmen had kidnapped her. It was Werden's case and Harrison got her to give him information about El Perro. El Perro was found and killed in a raid when they tried to arrest him. This led to don Vicente Villalobos, his uncle, to declare war on the LAPD, killing sixteen officers including Janice Parker and her Growlithe partner, Jackson. But a tip on his location in Los Angeles led to don Vicente's arrest and brought down the Dark Wolves crime ring.  
  
So that case was a bit of a sore point with Werden. Harrison got the information and he did not.  
  
Harrison stood up and gestured for another officer to watch the front desk, as Jenny escorted the badly disguised duo to an interrogation room. He and Striker weaved through the maze of desks and chairs, eventually reaching Werden's office. The detective closed the door behind them. As Harrison grabbed a chair to sit in and Striker pulled up some floor space for himself, he glanced around the cramped, messy office. Behind Werden's chair were two overstuffed filing cabinets. To the left, a small table with more files, some random papers on the floor, and an overflowing trash can in the corner next to the door.  
  
Harrison was sure that he had to be the biggest slob he had ever met that was employed by the LAPD.  
  
Werden sat down at his desk, pushing a few papers aside. He moved a very thick folder to the middle of his desk. From within this massive folder, he pulled out a smaller folder which Harrison saw labeled as "Summary Report" and a case number.  
  
"How have things been since Villalobos was busted?" asked Werden, his tone was cordial, but professional.  
  
"It's.been fine," Harrison replied, a little surprised by the question. "The reporters have been camped outside of my hotel room, since my apartment is being fixed for the door that was shot out by those Dark Wolf assassins. I don't know what else they expect." He smirked a bit. "Maybe they'll start asking Striker some questions about breaking up the Dark Wolves."  
  
"Ah, the media vultures," chuckled Werden. "I've hated those bastards since the O.J. Simpson Trial. Anyway, let's get down to business. Harrison, the reason that I've asked you into my office is that you're being assigned to a special project.and being partnered with me as well."  
  
Werden watched Harrison for a reaction. Harrison simply blinked and looked quite surprised. Werden smirked at him.  
  
"Yeah, that was my reaction too. However, you'll be sharpening your detective skills and dressing accordingly." Werden pulled on his tie a couple times to emphasize his point. "But, since you're still a beat cop, you'll get to keep your K-9 partner."  
  
Harrison blinked again, still in a bit of shock as Werden handed him the small folder. On the front, he read "Summary Report - Case No. 812435." Opening the folder showed mostly statistical data. His eyes scanned the information, then he blinked a few times in surprise. He looked at Werden.  
  
"This can't possibly be right."  
  
"It is. This 'Angel of Vengeance' has been around for about four years. He's quite the hero too: stopped robberies, stopped muggings, rescued hostages, saved girls from prostitution, even captured rapists, gang thugs and murderers. Read a little further down."  
  
Harrison did so. His mouth fell open after a couple minutes. He looked at the detective again.  
  
"He's committed 857 acts of assault and battery?!"  
  
"Yeah.it doesn't mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars of property damage - which usually comes out of the owner's pocket because no insurance company is going to believe that some winged freak destroyed their store or home."  
  
"Winged freak?" Harrison said in disbelief. "C'mon, you've got to be pulling my leg now. Where's the hidden camera?" He tried to get him to laugh it off.  
  
Werden only shook his head, which then prompted Harrison to stop laughing and read further. He read the description of the Angel of Vengeance aloud.  
  
"'A possibly Hispanic male, early twenties, stands between five foot four to six feet tall, wears a loose sleeved white ninja-type outfit, may have black hair, but dark brown eyes are confirmed. No other facial features are discernable through the facemask. Has been witnessed to do the following: sprout wings and fly away, show displays of immense strength.' " Harrison looked at Werden who held up a black and white photograph. It showed three men sitting on the ground with their backs to each other. Wrapped around all of them was a large steel beam. Harrison was floored by it.  
  
"It took over an hour for the fire department to cut the I-beam," said Werden.  
  
Harrison kept reading the list. His mind was racing.  
  
"'Becomes invisible, runs very fast and.is bulletproof'?"  
  
"That last one," remarked Werden, "isn't completely accurate. It seems that he creates some sort of shield that catches the bullets and then they just fall to the floor."  
  
Harrison arched a brow, then re-read the last item. Then he re-read it again, just to make sure it was right.  
  
"He electrocuted an escaping rapist by calling down lightning on a clear night?!"  
  
"There's the real winner of the bunch," Werden said sourly. "It's a miracle the guy lived. The paramedics that treated him said it looked like something went into his chest and through his foot. They knew that from all the melted rubber and burnt foam from the sneakers. His leg had to be amputated below the knee because the lightning had literally cooked his leg like a turkey drumstick from the inside."  
  
Harrison was awestruck by this as he handed the folder back to Werden. Werden sat back down after getting the folder from him, letting out a sigh of exasperation.  
  
"You know," started Werden, "I thought I was doing well in the department and get handed this shit from brass. I really hate political posturing."  
  
Harrison looked at him, but his expression had not changed. Werden smirked at him.  
  
"But I'm not worried," Werden smirked, "they say I'm not a bad detective. Mayor Riordan caught wind of the weird happenings and sightings in Los Angeles about some winged angel that's scaring the crap out of people. This is apart from the obvious criminal acts this guy's done."  
  
"Well," Harrison responded, looking rather uncertain, "why me then? I don't have much experience in this at all."  
  
"You have better people skills than I do," the detective replied flatly. "You see, I can talk to them, get some information, but I'm more into busting the scumbag, than having nice chit-chat and tea. They feel that you might be able to get more information out of the witnesses. The key factor was when you talked to that Delane girl, even though you didn't talk to me first about that, since she was my case."  
  
"I said I was sorry about that," replied Harrison, his lips pursed irritably.  
  
"I know," Werden said, smiling a bit. "I'm just busting your chops. I'm the one who told them about your people skills." He stood up and extended a hand to him. "Welcome aboard."  
  
Harrison turned a bit red and smiled some as he shook hands with the detective. As they sat back down, Harrison spoke up.  
  
"What's the first thing we do?"  
  
"We wait," he responded. "This Angel of Vengeance operates in the wee hours of the morning and usually in the downtown area. But sometimes he makes his way to some of the surrounding areas, so maybe we'll catch a lucky break and see him."  
  
"So be sure to dress warmly. It gets cold at night."  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
"Bitch, if you don't get your ass back to that wall over there, I'm gonna knock out your fuckin' teeth and sell you as the Blow Job Queen. Now, get your ass back over there!"  
  
The young black girl, dressed in a tight red vinyl top and matching miniskirt, turned and walked back to the wall with the other prostitutes. She did not say anything, but her steely glare spoke volumes about how much she loathed Darryl, but she dared not say anything because he would do exactly as he threatened.  
  
Darryl Washington watched her walk away, enjoying her young hips tilt back and forth, while her firm round ass molded nicely inside her miniskirt. At age twenty-four, he had already been in and out of prison a half dozen times; most of them before he was eighteen, so the Three Strikes law did not apply. He might as well have been tried as an adult for the drug possession, the intent to sell, and the multiple assault and battery charges he had done time for. Now, he was "an aspiring entrepreneur, marketing in human satisfaction." His "employees" were young girls he threatened, beat, raped and even strung out on drugs to keep them in line.  
  
He looked around at his "work environment." He could not have picked a better spot. He had the girls lined up along the side wall of the Hollywood Cabaret. On the left was a liquor store and on the right, a rundown motel. The johns leave the liquor store with some cheap wine or beer, pick out a girl and cruise over to the motel for fifteen minutes - rarely longer than that. Some even skip the alcohol altogether, having endured the frustrations of the "no-touch" rule of the Hollywood Cabaret lap dancers. He saw it all the time. It was easy money and he loved to make money.  
  
Other black entrepreneurs, in more legitimate industries, would not share in his enthusiasm or how he measured success. Given he was currently dressed in thick sweats due to the chill of the night, and thus, not a picture of success, he was saving up to buy his second BMW. He already had enough gold jewelry for himself and a few Armani suits. This was "value- added" with the stable of girls he could bang anytime he wanted. This entire operation was kept in a large apartment about four blocks away. He had soundproofed the walls, so that his activities there would go unheard and, more importantly, unreported.  
  
He felt like he was on top of the world and he smiled to himself as he saw another potential customer approach him.  
  
"What can I delight you in this evening?" he said, his voice rather friendly, but not loud, not wanting to draw attention to himself other than from the customer.  
  
The customer looked about seventy years old with straggly white hair, liver- spotted skin on his spindly legs, old sandals, and an old beige trench coat. It was apparent to him that the old man was not wearing any clothes underneath. While Darryl had not seen him before, he was sure he had money. He could always sniff it out. It was that and the intensity of his dark eyes that told him that the old man meant business.  
  
"I'm interested in some white pussy," the old man's voice crackled. "Ya got any of that?"  
  
"Of course I do," Darryl replied, confident in obtaining another sale, "provided you got the bread for one."  
  
The old man pulled a gnarled white hand from his trench coat pocket. In it, he had a fifty-dollar bill. Darryl simply smiled.  
  
"Right this way," he said, holding out his arm like a gracious host at a fine party to where the girls were standing. The two men walked over to the row of girls, who quickly primped themselves up to be selected. Darryl called out the two white girls and had them step forward. The old man leered at them long and hard. One was a fairly chesty blonde in white spandex pants and top, with matching high heels and showing off plenty of midriff. The other was a young brunette and rather pretty, but lacking some of the feminine development of her blonde counterpart. She was dressed in a black latex miniskirt and a short dark blue t-shirt that just stopped below her breasts. She also wore black four inch spiked heels, giving her a more statuesque appearance.  
  
The old pervert really seemed to be enjoying himself as he gazed lustfully between the two girls. Just as Darryl was about to urge him to pick one, he nodded to the brunette. His voice cackled with glee and lust.  
  
"I want her."  
  
"An excellent choice," Darryl said, as he accepted the money from the old man. The brunette smiled brightly and walked with the old man to the motel next door, making idle chatter along the way. Upon reaching the door to the room, she pulled out a key from her little purse and unlocked it, letting them both in. Once the door was closed, her demeanor immediately changed, becoming very stern and professional.  
  
"Okay, here's how it goes. No weird, kinky stuff. No drugs. No oversized foreign objects."  
  
The old man smirked a bit and then narrowed his eyes at her. He put his hands together and muttered a few words. Pentagrams on the backs of his hands appeared and glowed a fierce red. The visage of the old man disappeared into mist, revealing his true form.  
  
"Holy shit," was all the girl could say as she stared wide-eyed at him. "I thought you weren't real."  
  
He did not reply. Instead, he pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his belt, opened it, and showed her the picture. "Is this you?"  
  
She looked at it. It was a flyer for a missing girl. The picture showed an innocent girl of fourteen, smiling and happy about being a freshman in high school. Her name was Rachel Black.  
  
The sixteen year-old turned a lower lip up where it quivered in regret. She wished she had not run away and now wanted to be with her parents. She nodded quickly and looked at him right in the eye. A glimmer of hope shone there.  
  
"Good," he replied as he put the paper away. "You're going to promise me something. When your pimp is busted, you are going to testify against him."  
  
"What?! I-I can't do that," she said with fear creeping into her response.  
  
"You have to do this or he'll keep doing it to other girls. Like he's doing to your friends who walk the streets with you or he'll find some new girls to replace you - like your sister."  
  
The girl cringed at that, folding her arms over herself like she was cold. Her stare matched how she felt.  
  
"How did you know I have a sister?"  
  
"I do my homework," the vigilante replied, then his voice became firm. "Do you want this to happen to her?"  
  
She stared at him a long moment; two intense gazes locked onto each other. But he won out. She looked down and shook her head.  
  
"Good. I want you to call the police as soon as I leave. Tell them that your pimp is getting his ass kicked by me and where it's happening. Once you've done that and they say they're on their way, I want you to round up the other girls and convince them to testify. The more girls you convince, the longer the scum stays in jail."  
  
Rachel nodded as the Angel drew a card from his sleeve and put his hands together. The pentagrams glowed a fiery red as he focused his power.  
  
"Warrior Strength," he murmured and his body expanded and tightly fit into his outfit. With that, he darted out the door to take down the pimp. For a minute, she was in shock of what she saw, then remembered to call the police.  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
Nearby, in a blue unmarked police car, Werden and Harrison cruised the streets of Hollywood's red light districts while Striker sat in the back seat. Harrison was now dressed in a navy blazer, gray pants and white dress shirt. Covering all that was a simple black trench coat. His badge hung around his neck in necklace form.  
  
Suddenly, the CB radio crackled and a woman's voice came over the speaker.  
  
"Attention all units and JW1969. 240 in progress at the Hollywood Cabaret near Hollywood and Vine. Address 6315 Hollywood Boulevard. The Angel of Vengeance has been sighted."  
  
The cops looked at each other, then Harrison placed the red flashing light on top of the car as Werden floored it.  
  
"Looks like we got lucky tonight. That address is right around the corner," remarked Werden. Harrison said nothing as he picked up the CB and pressed the button to talk.  
  
"Dispatch, this is JW1969 responding Code 3 to the 240 at the Hollywood Cabaret. ETA - three minutes. Immediate backup is requested. Subject is extremely dangerous. I repeat, the subject is extremely dangerous."  
  
"Roger JW1969," Dispatch replied, "copy on back-up request. They're on their way."  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
Darryl found himself thrown against the plaster wall of the liquor store for the third time. Even in his daze, Darryl knew this was going to go down badly. He finally managed to throw a punch at the vigilante, but he caught the fist. The Angel squeezed strongly; forcing Darryl's fingers to fit into spots they were not supposed to fit. Darryl screamed in pain as his index and middle fingers broke and the skin of his palm split open to allow entry of his fingertips.  
  
The vigilante glanced quickly at the girls who cowered together along the wall of the Cabaret. They all watched him fearfully, not sure if they would be his next victim or he would assume command of them. At that moment, Rachel rounded the corner to where the other girls were and quickly explained the situation. He was here to save them, but they had to testify against Darryl.  
  
He turned his attention back to the pimp who was writhing in agony. Now he needed to finish the job.  
  
With the pimp's bleeding fist still in his hand, he directed his hand up and over his head and twisted it. Darryl yelled in greater agony now that his arm was bent behind him. The Angel continued his motion, gripping Darryl's wrist with his other hand and bringing him around, like he was swinging a baseball bat. The vigilante swung hard and let the pimp fly into the wall. There was a very audible thud and crumbling of plaster as a sizeable dent was made from Darryl's back. Darryl's limp body dropped to the ground feet first, then fell face first onto the asphalt.  
  
He could hear the sirens blaring now. They were close. He drew his Flight card quickly and muttered the incantation to release its power. The mists swirled around him and the wings formed. Harrison, Werden and Striker arrived on the scene, loudly screeching to a halt. Harrison jumped out and opened the door for Striker.  
  
"Striker! Charge and take down! Go! Go! Go!" commanded Harrison.  
  
The large pokémon bolted towards the vigilante with remarkable speed, but the vigilante had already drawn another card. The card depicted a medieval soldier hiding behind a large wood and metal shield as numerous arrows bounced off it. The banner below it simply read: DEFLECTION. The dark hero incanted the card and new mists quickly formed a large opaque shield about four feet in diameter. Striker leaped at the vigilante to take him down, but he pulled back his arm and swung the shield, clouting the pokémon with a powerful backhand. Striker yelped in pain as he bounced and rolled away from the vigilante, almost back to Harrison's feet. Both of the cops looked at winged man, drew their pistols and opened fire. The Angel crouched low, keeping the shield in front of him. Bullets struck the shield and unceremoniously fell to the ground. The policemen stopped shooting; Werden having run of out bullets in his revolver and Harrison with a half of a clip to go.  
  
The vigilante took this opportunity to leap into the air and flap hard to escape. He ascended quickly and everyone just watched him fly higher and higher. The cops were awestruck by this, but Harrison managed to shake it off and saw that Striker was back on his feet. He gave the command, pointing skyward.  
  
"Striker! Flame blast! Flame blast!"  
  
Striker looked in the direction his master pointed to and saw the flying man. The regal hellhound sucked in some air to build up his attack. The smell of smoke and brimstone filled his partner's nostrils. Exhaling with great force, Striker unleashed a massive fireball at the vigilante. The fireball rocketed into the sky as a meteor would fall to the earth. The Angel braced for impact as the fireball exploded on the shield, briefly lighting up the night sky. The shield faded away from the damage it took, but the dark hero kept flying higher.  
  
Harrison saw an opportunity. He got down on one knee, took aim and emptied the remainder of his clip at the vigilante. The Angel dipped and rolled to avoid the bullets, then drew out another card. Harrison kept an eye on him as he switched out the clips in his gun. Werden was reloading his pistol as well, but not watching the sky. The vigilante spoke the words on the new card, which simply depicted a white arrow pointing to the top of the card. The banner read: ARROW OF LIGHT. The pentagrams glowed red once again and the card took on a very bright white luminosity. Harrison did not like the looks of this.  
  
Suddenly, a ball of light blasted forth, heading straight for the pokémon. Harrison barely had enough time to react due to its blazing speed. Harrison tackled his partner to get him out of the way and pinned him to the ground. The white ball of light zipped past his head and crashed into their unmarked car, leaving a gaping hole about four inches in diameter in the right passenger door. Harrison glanced through the hole and saw another one in the left passenger door. He could now clearly see the street.  
  
"Harrison, stay down! It's coming back!!"  
  
Harrison barely got a look at it before it slammed into the ground near his left leg, and then bounced away. It was not so much that it did that, but it kept doing that. He felt the vibrations of the high speed glowing ball of light slamming into the ground around his legs. He was sure that if he moved wrong, he would lose a limb or something, but he needed to escape. Fear set in as the pounding continued around and in between his legs. He had already let go of Striker, who could only bark fiercely at the speeding white ball. Werden was just as powerless to do anything. The tension mounted in Harrison's mind as there was a brief pause. Maybe it was over.  
  
Suddenly, a high-pitched whistling reached everyone's ears and the volume increased dramatically. Harrison covered his head once more as the Arrow of Light slammed into the ground - right between his legs. He could feel his groin jump and shirk away from the point of impact as he cussed loudly. He shook visibly, wishing to God it was over.  
  
The Arrow of Light quickly returned to its master, who arrogantly smiled under his facemask and continued to fly away. Werden cussed quietly as he shook his head in disbelief and saw why Harrison was shaking so hard.  
  
The Arrow of Light had outlined Harrison's legs with four-inch wide, six- inch deep potholes in the sidewalk. There was an especially larger and deeper hole just south of his groin  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
The two policemen and the pokémon sat tiredly in the large break room back at the police station. Other cops milled through once in a while to pick up some coffee or get a snack from the vending machine. Striker could be heard snoring quietly on the floor. The two men stared into space. The events of the night replaying in their minds.  
  
"Can't fucking believe that," Werden started, his voice stern, but his exhaustion was evident.  
  
"You and me both," Harrison glanced up, his eyes were red with a dogged tiredness. He was not used to being up at 4:30 in the morning. He paused for a long moment, then continued, "Maybe we're going at this all wrong. Perhaps finding out who he is may help us out here."  
  
"We've tried that. Several thugs actually managed to hit him, so some of his blood had been left behind. The crime lab pegged some genetic markers and that's how we know he's a Hispanic in his mid-20's." He paused a moment. "There wasn't anything remarkable about the blood either, except that the level of electrolytes was exceedingly high."  
  
Harrison nodded. It made sense. With what he saw tonight, having extra electrical energy in the blood did not surprise him at all. But how did he get like that? he thought.  
  
"You know," Harrison said, "for the ten years I've been on the force, there's always been a reason - a motive, that drives the perp to do what he does. So.mysticism aside, why does he do it? What drives him?"  
  
"Usually," Werden replied after pondering a moment, "vigilantes have a sense of justice and want to do the right thing. However, this sense of justice isn't always on track with the laws and normally, it's more of a profound sense of vengeance than justice.justice in the mind of the guy who kills his ex-wife's lover or the woman that sets his ex-boyfriend's car on fire like in that Angela Basset movie, whatever it was called." Werden smirked a bit, then continued, "But any shrink would probably tell you that something like this is caused by some traumatic event in early childhood or some psychobabble like that. You know, that 'get in touch with your inner child' bullshit."  
  
The two cops chuckle a bit, then Werden continues. "But even if that was the case, we're pretty damn lucky he hasn't killed anyone yet."  
  
"I don't know.I don't think he will," replied Harrison. "I mean, he could've killed me easily. He was very accurate." He shifted uncomfortably, remembering how close the ball of light came to his groin. "If he had that sort of disregard for life, he would've blown us away - even killed the people he's beaten up." Werden nodded in agreement, now feeling like they might be getting somewhere with this.  
  
"Maybe some historical digging will produce some answers," Harrison said, his eyes focused on the far corner of the table, his mind racing with ideas now. "I mean, what we saw tonight had to have taken some practice. No one who can do that can be that skilled unless they practice."  
  
"Sounds like a plan, Harrison," Werden said, slowly standing up now. "The Records Room is downstairs, one floor above the morgue. I'll look into area of attacks and see if there's a central area that he might be based out of. That sonofabitch is going down."  
  
Harrison pursed his lips some as Werden left the break room. Research was not a strong point of his. Maybe someone down there could help him. He stood up to leave and smiled at Striker, who was already sitting on his haunches. The pokémon panted quietly as Harrison scratched him between his ears, then followed his master out of the break room and downstairs to the Records Room.  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
"Okay, that's it, John. You're all set to go," said Officer Pamela Espion. She reset her thick, dark-rimmed glasses on her nose, and then pulled her medium length black hair back behind her ear again. She smiled a bit nervously. It was not too often that anyone came down here at this hour, much less Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome and his big dog, Spot. And they were all alone in the wee hours of the morning. Who knows what sorts of things could happen between the large stacks of --  
  
"Great, Pam, thanks. I appreciate the help," Harrison replied, offering a small, but friendly smile.  
  
"Oh," she blinked, then grinned, her cheeks becoming a bit flush on her olive complexion, "you-you're welcome. Just.holler if you need anything." She turned and walked away quickly; the heat in her face had become unbearable. Striker and Harrison watched the slender woman walk away, then behind a filing cabinet to her desk. Harrison glanced at his canine partner, who in turn looked back at him. Striker gave a low growl to which Harrison smirked.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I need a date," he murmured."  
  
Striker wagged his tail some, then Harrison turned back to the computer to get to work. Carefully finger tapping the keyboard, he typed:  
  
find white ninja vigilante  
  
Pressing the Enter key, the screen paused then scrolled a list of ten newspaper articles. Harrison's eyes flickered to the top of the screen.  
  
Found 10 of 2374 articles  
  
"Thanks Werden," he grumbled, pursing his lips. He knew again why he disliked doing research. He did not do that well in high school with it nor at the police academy and he probably was not going to do well here. But he pondered a moment, trying to pick out details of his encounter with the vigilante.  
  
Let's see, he thought, white ninja type outfit, Hispanic, just under six feet tall, uses playing cards.  
  
He knew this was not helping. Most of it was already in the file. So what stuck out? The cards were the source somehow. Witnesses reported him pulling them before he would beat the crap out of someone. The same thing happened tonight. A hand went into the sleeve, pulled out a card, there was a red glow and bang, The White Fast Ball of Groin Death.  
  
Red glow?  
  
He remembered now. There were two bright red spots on the backs of his hands. His brow furrowed on that. That information was not in the file. Maybe the mainframe knew something. He finger tapped a new command:  
  
find white ninja vigilante red glow hands  
  
He pressed the big key. A moment later, he cracked a smile.  
  
Found 3 of 3 results.  
  
His eyes darted over the results. One result, which puzzled him, was dated almost twenty years ago. He typed again:  
  
read article 3  
  
The mainframe told him to wait a couple minutes. Harrison stared blankly at the screen as Striker yawned noisily. He could only guess at what was going to appear. Finally, the article popped up. He skimmed the article, then his eyes widened.  
  
" 'I saw his hands glow red, but it smelled like he was on fire,'  
reported one classmate of Esteban Ramero. The nine-year-old boy was  
promptly suspended for breaking Johnny Zontag's jaw in two places.  
His guardians, who are his aunt and uncle, made no comment about the  
incident.' "  
  
Harrison pushed the Print button and smiled to himself.  
  
"Gotcha." 


	3. The Hung Begins

Part III -- The Hunt Begins  
  
"There is no such thing as a non-Catholic Latino."  
  
Esteban heard this phrase often as he grew up in his aunt and uncle's home. In spite of the strong belief in the magic of the Clow Cards, Catholicism was deeply rooted in both sides of the family. It was easier to say and act according to the Catholic rules; to be a wolf in sheep's clothing, than to risk excommunication from extended family.  
  
So the three of them stood in church, while the Mass was coming to a close. Esteban stood next to the aisle, then his Tía Rosa, followed by Tío Rudolfo. From the fifth row, they had a good view of the priest, the white marble altar, and the massive crucifix that hung suspended from the ceiling behind him. The priest was giving the final blessing to everyone and the Mass ended. The priest came down to the front row and gestured for a man from there to join him. He smiled as a thin, black man in his mid-forties stepped out and stood next to him. Esteban looked at him. He had graying hair, but he was not balding.  
  
Then he made contact with his eyes.  
  
His mind flashed back to that night. He recalled the deep brown color and the fear they held. But now, even without the fear, the eyes matched! It was him! Aaron Temple; the one who wanted to leave quickly. He saw his chance after all these years of hunting. Bolting out of his pew, he picked up the man, ran to the altar and forcibly slammed Temple's body onto it. The man yelled in pain and surprise, but the real screaming was about to begin. With a feral look in his eyes, Esteban slowly raised his hand with all the ceremony of an Aztec shaman. Suddenly, he punched his hand through Temple's chest. A quick moment later, he pulled his hand back out, clutching the man's still beating heart. Esteban looked at the crucifix - at the man who was not there when his parents were killed - and cried out:  
  
"This is for you, Papá!"  
  
With a powerful squeeze, blood splashed everywhere, covering Temple, the altar, and himself. Soon, Temple's screams of terror and pain had finally died off. Esteban threw the spent heart at the crucifix, leaving a bloody smear on the shoulder of Christ.  
  
The applause began. The people of the congregation approved.  
  
Breathing heavily, he whirled around in a puzzled daze. Suddenly, he found himself back in his pew, sweating profusely. The people were clapping for the new parishioner; Simon Smith. They had welcomed him into the fold.  
  
He could barely hear his aunt asking if he was all right, but he could take no more. He immediately turned and left the pew, walking with a strong gait to the wooden double doors of the church. He threw them open, the morning sunlight instantly blinded him. But he did not care. His thirst for vengeance would soon be quenched. He had to prepare. The Final Judgment would soon be upon all of them.  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
It was the late afternoon when the trio arrived at Ramero's residence. They took the morning and afternoon to get some badly needed sleep. They were able to get some location information on Matt Starkin, but Aaron Temple was nowhere to be found. They hoped that Ramero had some answers or could be talked out of his path of deadly vengeance.  
  
"So lemme get this straight," said Werden, as he, Striker, and Harrison walked down the dimly lit and grimy hallway. "This guy we're after saw his parents get killed. He's now seeking retribution by taking out his anger on criminals."  
  
"That's essentially right," replied Harrison as he checked his standard issue 9mm, making sure it had not gone anywhere in the last two minutes. "He watched his parents die very painful deaths while they were being treated in an ICU. The old autopsy reports state they were beaten to death. The police report said there were two home invaders: Matt Starkin and Aaron Temple. So, I think he's looking for the actual killers as they were never caught."  
  
"Why not become a real cop and bring them down by the book?"  
  
"You said it yourself," Harrison replied. "His sense of justice isn't on track with the law and there was an early childhood trauma. Think about it: If you had mystical powers at age ten and you watched your parents slowly and painfully die from severe beatings, would you become a cop? " Harrison pulled out his badge necklace from inside his shirt pocket and put it on as Werden nodded in agreement to his question.  
  
"Hm, good point," Werden said, his lips pursed wryly. "I'd want to take them down too."  
  
"Exactly.okay, here's apartment forty-two." Harrison and Werden both drew their guns. Harrison knelt opposite of the door, about three feet away. He tapped the floor a couple times, whispering to Striker. "Right here, boy. Get ready, get ready."  
  
Striker immediately went to the spot and crouched low, like he was going to pounce on a small animal. The pokémon faced the door with a feral glare and tensed for action. Harrison and Werden stood on either side of the doorframe. Pistols were pointed down as Werden firmly knocked on the wooden door. His voice rang out strongly.  
  
"Esteban Ramero. This is the police. Open the door."  
  
"Abre la puerta. Esto es la policía," said Harrison.  
  
Werden looked at Harrison and spoke quietly. "You speak Spanish?"  
  
"Knowing a couple foreign phrases saves a lot of needless slapping around of people," he replied as quietly with a shrug, then added a smirk soon after.  
  
"You're a comedian.fucking great," Werden said, but any further conversation was cut short by a noise from behind the door. Harrison gave a signal to back up. Both men backed up a couple feet, then Harrison gave the order.  
  
"Striker! Door blast! Door blast!"  
  
Striker strongly sucked in a great volume of air. Smoke formed around his mouth as the smell of brimstone quickly filled the hallway. With a strong, downward jerk of his majestic neck, a volleyball sized sphere of flame exploded into the door, turning it into a smoldering pile of splinters. It was like watching a large fire dragon blow up a castle wall.  
  
Harrison ran in first, unexpectedly hearing a woman scream as he passed through the thinning smoke. Werden immediately followed behind, both with their guns pointed out in front of them. They both saw an older Hispanic couple clinging to each other, fearful of what the two men would do.  
  
"Striker! Guard them! Guard!"  
  
Striker ran in and watched the couple, growling loudly like an angry wolf. Werden and Harrison quickly split up and searched the studio apartment. They found no one else. Harrison turned to see the older man holding what looked like a tall playing card and a white glow on the back of his hand. He was murmuring something, but in the next instant, Striker whimpered, then turned on Harrison. His teeth bared menacingly at his partner and best friend. Harrison stood agape at what he saw, then become angered, pointing his gun at the older man.  
  
"What the hell did you do to my partner?! Stop it now!"  
  
The man and woman simply looked at him. From seemingly out of thin air, the woman produced a similar card. A white glow appeared on the backs of her hands, then within a second, an opaque shield about four feet in diameter appeared.  
  
Werden came up behind them and put his .38 to the man's head and audibly pulled the hammer back.  
  
"I rarely miss at this range. Stop whatever the hell you're doing and surrender now, dirtbag."  
  
The man gave a nod and muttered "Dispel." Striker's angry features immediately softened, giving way to a confused whimper. He looked at the couple again and backed up a few steps. The woman said the same thing and the shield disappeared. The glow of their white pentagrams faded away.  
  
Werden and Harrison gave quiet sighs of relief as Werden handcuffed them both to a couple of chairs. Harrison comforted Striker after that, making sure that he was okay. The pokémon seemed to be himself, just wary of the couple.  
  
Harrison grabbed another chair and faced the back of it to the handcuffed couple. He straddled the chair, his arms folded on top of the back. It was obvious that he was a little shaken that his partner turned on him, but even angrier with the couple. A good backhand to the man's jaw would make everything right. The big problem was that they had not done anything wrong. There was no law against mystically turning your partner on you. He focused for a moment to bring his anger down. If there were any remaining doubts that they had found the right place, the brief skirmish certainly dismissed them.  
  
"Who are you?" he asked, managing to contain himself now.  
  
"We are Rudolfo and Rosa Ramero - Esteban's aunt and uncle.," the man replied.  
  
Harrison nodded, remembering the tidbit of info about them in the old newspaper article. Looking at Rudolfo's face showed a similarity to the autopsy pictures of Esteban's father that were included in the old hospital records he had found. He guessed that he was the victim's brother.  
  
"Where is he now?" Harrison asked.  
  
"We don't know," Rosa replied, her tone filled with concern. "He's usually here in the afternoons. We have a key to this apartment, so we let ourselves in."  
  
"Yeah," started Werden, "after he's done saving the world from itself, kicking some pimp's ass and attacking police officers."  
  
"We do not know anything about that," Rudolfo said calmly. Rosa's face changed immediately to worry.  
  
"The hell you don't!" roared Werden, putting his face to Rudolfo's. His well-trained face of anger in full effect. "He's been doing it four four years! DON'T LIE TO ME!"  
  
"Look." started Harrison, "my partner here is just concerned that someone might get killed or has already been killed. He attacked us last night".  
  
"No," Rosa whispered, looking fearful now. "Rudolfo, no. That can't be. No está posible." Rudolfo shushed his wife, concern covered his face now. Perhaps this was meant to be. Perhaps the time had come.  
  
"We really don't know where he is," Rudolfo started, "but we think that he has found one of the men that killed his parents. I would guess he is following him."  
  
"Who did he find?" asked Werden, his face still scowled with anger.  
  
"We're not sure. He wouldn't tell us. He just walked right out of the church." Rosa said as tears streamed down her face. "Please.don't put him in jail. He's a good boy, really -"  
  
"A good boy?! Jesus lady -- " started Werden, but caught himself as Harrison gestured to him to calm down. Werden took a deep breath, then pulled out his card and handed it to her. "Call us if you see him. We really need to talk to him."  
  
Rosa took the card as more tears fell from her eyes. Rudolfo seemed passive to what had happened. Harrison released the couple from the handcuffs and gave them to Werden. Harrison paused a moment, then turned to the couple.  
  
"I need to ask you two questions," he started, his voice filled with a sort of determined bewilderment. "These powers we're seeing.what are they?"  
  
"They are the powers of the CardCaptors," Rudolfo said, his voice now seemed to command their attention as only a master storyteller could do. "It is they who are destined to wield the power of the Clow Cards. The destiny of a CardCaptor is rarely clear of why they have the magical power, but it is simply that they do have the power. This was insisted upon by the Cards' creator: Clow Reed. He was a very powerful magician, descended of Chinese and European parents. He combined the magic of the East and the magic of the West, producing the four Elemental Cards of Earth, Fire, Air and Water."  
  
"However, these cards were difficult to control, possessing too much free will, which in turn, created a great deal of chaos and havoc. So, he bound them to their card forms, only to be called forth through incantation and a CardCaptor. The other powers you may have witnessed were constructed in the same way."  
  
"Christ, what a bunch of --" muttered Werden, but Harrison quieted him.  
  
"But if you're destined to be a user of these Clow Cards, why is there a red glow when Esteban uses them? Both of you glowed white."  
  
Rudolfo took a deep breath, remembering well the day it first happened.  
  
"Esteban lashed out in anger when he used his power, forever corrupting the purity of the magic of the Clow Cards. To regain that purity, he must seek retribution on those who wronged him; who set him on this path of destruction. They must be judged and sentenced."  
  
Harrison looked at Werden, then back to Rudolfo. He quickly thanked the couple, then swiftly left the apartment, calling Striker to him. Werden rushed up next to a very determined Harrison.  
  
"We need to find Starkin and Temple - and fast," Harrison said.  
  
"Temple disappeared off the face of the earth, but Starkin is still on active duty. I've got a contact in Narcotics who might know where he is."  
  
"Good," Harrison replied, "let's hope he's the one that Esteban found."  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
Dusk had arrived as Ramero sat atop the church he was in earlier today, perched like a gargoyle on the corner. He had gone home to get his outfit, then returned to stake out the church, in hopes of seeing Temple again. His panic attack had ceased after he donned his costume. With his mind was now focused, he was ready to kill Aaron Temple. He began to think of what he would do to him as there were so many lovely ways to punish him.  
  
As he thought of the best way to cause pain and suffering, he watched people come and go from the assembly hall behind the church. He knew that new members often were taken there so that they could meet and greet the other parishioners. Ramero figured that he must have joined a couple of volunteer groups and was helping them - trying to atone for his murderous sins.  
  
But no amount of volunteering would evade the Angel's justice.  
  
Hours passed and, finally, darkness had taken hold of the City of Angels and the church.  
  
The hall door opened and.it was him. Aaron Temple. He still could not believe his eyes as he saw Temple leave the church hall. He almost seemed smug about something. Yes.the son of a bitch was even smiling! He would surely wipe that off his face. Numerous memories of dreams he had flooded his mind of the countless times he had killed him; some with edged weapons, some with blunt ones, but the best ones were with his bare hands. There was nothing he could not fix with his bare hands. Temple had left the sanctuary of the church and would now become his victim. With that, he drew a card from his left sleeve. The card showed the familiar mosaic and banner design. The picture was of a man wearing a hooded cloak that covered most of his features, while another man seemed unable to find him. Focusing on his power, he softly spoke the word on the banner:  
  
"Shroud."  
  
The effect was fairly immediate and without any sort of ceremony. Within five seconds, he was gone. Only a nearby pigeon could sense him, but was not sure where he was. He continued to focus as he drew the Flight card. He incanted its power, then felt the wings spread behind his back. Now, he could tail him undetected.  
  
He leapt off the church and glided quietly, flapping every once in a while to stay aloft. Temple walked along the dark sidewalk by himself, seemingly without any fear of whatever might be hiding in the shadows. The walk was uneventful as he finally arrived at his home, four blocks later. He landed softly at the foot of Temple's walkway, just as he entered his small, two- story home. He quickly dispelled the wings. No mist was visible, since he was still shrouded.  
  
Temple stopped, turned and looked around. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle, as though his instinct had warned him about something, but there was nothing there for him to see. The man shrugged and went inside. He dispelled the wings with a soft word and smiled maliciously beneath his facemask. It was the first time he had smiled in years.  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
The lights in Temple's home had been dark for hours now, but Ramero stood still on the sidewalk, like a sentinel watching over his charge. The street was quiet, barring the occasional car that drove by. The time to strike had come.  
  
He reached into his right sleeve and pulled out a couple of cards, one of which was the Flight card. The other card depicted an ethereal looking spirit passing through a solid brick wall. The banner below it read: GHOSTING. He never liked to use this card as it gave him a sick feeling to pass through solid objects. However, his destiny awaited him.  
  
He dispelled the Shroud effect, then he incanted the Flight card. His wings took him up and above the roof. He continued to hover there as he called forth the power of the Ghosting card. Silver mists swirled around him, completely encasing him. Moments passed by as the mists began to disburse, leaving behind a very faded version of himself. He passed a hand through some of the remaining mist and saw that it remained undisturbed. He was a ghost now and readied to act like one.  
  
He slowed his flapping so that he could lower himself into the house. He curled up into a ball and descended. He passed through the roof into a pitch-black attic, then further descending through the ceiling, where he could see the layers of wood and plaster. He drifted through what looked like a study, but he passed through a desk before he could see much else.  
  
Finally, he was in the living room. There was not much furniture here: an old sofa, a table, a TV with a stand, a couple of non-descript paintings and several tables with plants on them. There were bookshelves behind him and a stairwell to the second story in front. To his right were several glass doors to a tiny backyard and a window to the front. A modest place for one so evil.  
  
He extended his legs above the faded plaid sofa he was barely floating above. His feet were about six inches from the lumpy cushions. He focused for a moment, then uttered quietly and quickly:  
  
"Dispel Ghosting. Dispel Flight."  
  
Immediately, he solidified and the wings disappeared into a large mist. He landed on the very squeaky sofa, but balanced himself and was able to quickly stifle the noise. His heart pounded in his ears as he listened for any sort of indication that he had been heard.  
  
All was silent. Nothing stirred.  
  
He carefully stepped off the sofa, making sure to keep the old squeaky springs as quiet as possible. With that accomplished, he took a few deep breaths to calm himself down and looked around. Glancing past the stairs, he saw an entryway to the kitchen. With nothing of note that he could see there, he decided to make his presence known. He picked up one of the vases and threw it through one of the glass doors to the backyard. The silence of the house shattered like the door.  
  
Upstairs, Aaron and his wife, Sharon, woke up with a start. They heard the remnants of the door falling to the ground. Aaron got out of bed, grabbed a nearby baseball bat and prepared to head down the stairs. Sharon went to their son's room to ensure his safety and call the police.  
  
Temple made his way down the stairs and had the bat up, ready to swing. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled hard, like it had earlier that night, warning him that something was not right. At the foot of the stairs, he looked to the kitchen, and then turned to see the broken glass door. He took a few steps to the door to inspect the damage. No one was in the living room, so he was not worried about someone jumping him. He looked at the glass on the ground as it spread out across the concrete porch. He blinked once, realizing that the shards of glass were outside the living room, not inside, as it should be for a break-in.  
  
That meant the intruder was already in the house.  
  
This realization cued the vigilante to speak quickly.  
  
"Dispel Shroud. Warrior Strength."  
  
Ramero faded in quickly and increased in size at the same time. He had noted that this effect always induced a high level of fear; especially when they know they are about to be attacked. This was no exception.  
  
"Now.you die!"  
  
Ramero charged him quickly and Temple swung the bat to defend himself. The dark hero put up his left arm up toward the bat. The bat connected with his arm, but the force of Ramero's counterattack caused the bat to snap in half with a loud crack. Temple stared wide-eyed at the bat handle as Ramero punched him in the stomach, then struck him across the jaw, slamming the middle-aged man against the wall in remarkable pain.  
  
Ramero could hear screams and cries of worry from the stairs, but he ignored them. He focused on terminating Temple with extreme prejudice. Temple was having a hard time standing up and was very dizzy. This frustrated Ramero to no end.  
  
"Get up! Get up, you murderous sonofabitch! Get up so I can kill you!"  
  
Ramero was ready to provide a strong, swift kick to Temple's midsection when a little boy jumped in front of Temple, crying and screaming.  
  
"Don't kill my daddy! Don't kill my daddy!"  
  
If his mask had been off, his jaw would be on the floor. His need to kill Temple was being foiled by a small child who could not be much older than he was when his parents died. Was the cycle of violence to continue? Should he kill the child as well - forever wiping this seed of evil from the earth? But he realized he could not hurt a child. He protected them. They needed protection from the darkness of humanity. Tonight, the boy needed protection from him. Ramero shook his head quickly, not really knowing what to do with himself. He bellowed fiercely, then punched the nearby wall, creating a sizeable dent. He could barely feel the pain, but he was defeated.  
  
"I won't hurt your daddy.now. Go to your mother. I need to talk with your father," he said quietly.  
  
The child wept openly, but Temple urged him to go back to his mother. Reluctantly, he did so. His worried mother scooped him up and darted up the stairs to call the police again.  
  
The Angel picked up Temple and pushed him against the wall. He held him there with one hand, using the other one to remove his mask. Upon revealing himself to him, his eyes narrowed with determination.  
  
"However, later.is a different story, if you give me bad information."  
  
Temple shook visibly as his eyes locked onto his. He looked like he might hyperventilate at any moment, since his breathing had become very shallow. A gasp escaped his lips. He looked closely at Ramero and his eyes widened again; this time, in fearful recognition.  
  
"Dear Jesus, you're that man Starkin beat.him and his wife. But.but that was-  
  
"Eighteen years ago," he replied sternly, gritting his teeth. "That couple died two weeks later in the hospital's ICU. I'm their son. I'm the little boy you cowards ran from."  
  
"Oh God.oh God!" Temple said as his lips quivered in fear. "I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry! That night, after Starkin beat up your parents, I couldn't be around him anymore. I was so troubled by the whole thing that I turned to Jesus and never saw him again. I swear it as the truth, so help me God. Please." his voice became soft, "please don't kill me."  
  
"Why shouldn't I kill you?" he asked, his voice filled with anger. "You and Starkin took everything away from me. I lost all sense of the world around me. Every night, I have nightmares filled with terror. Every night, I hear my father's dying screams. You bastards took my life away from me! Why shouldn't I kill you?!"  
  
A certain calmness slowly overcame the intense fear Temple felt, like he now understood that he was going to pay for his sins. He confessed in hopes of seeking atonement.  
  
"Look," started Temple, his voice reaching that same level of calmness, "we only meant to rob your house. Just a quick smash-n-grab job; nothing more. We had just turned to leave your place when a woman came around and saw us. I was ready to drop what I had and run. But Starkin.no, his eyes told a different story. I could see that. I can hear him so clearly, even now. 'No way am I goin' back. Never again.' Before I could say anything, he swung at her face and brought her to the floor. Then he just started to kick her with an unbridled fury. It scared the hell outta me.and I did nothing to stop him."  
  
"When he was finished, she barely moved. I was sure he had killed her. Her husband saw her on the floor and rushed to her, but he didn't see Starkin. I remember the look on his face as he went down. He was really scared, but he was determined to fight back. And he did. Lord have mercy, he tried so hard. But he'd taken too many kicks to his head. When he was down, Starkin just unleashed an attack with so much rage. He just beat on him, even though he was already out cold. I was terrified. Too scared to move or react."  
  
"As he finished with him and we were going to leave, we heard a little boy running through house. Starkin just grinned. He wanted more. It was as though he had found his calling or something. When I saw the boy, I couldn't let it happen again. Not to a little boy."  
  
Temple's eyes streamed with tears as he recalled the horror of that night. At long last, he had finally confessed his darkest sin. Even though his life would end now, he was at peace with his soul.  
  
"Touching story," replied Ramero curtly, "but I still don't have a reason to not kill you. You're just as guilty as Starkin because you did nothing."  
  
Temple looked at him, the fear returning. It suddenly dawned on him on what might save his life.  
  
"I know where Starkin is," Temple said, trying to keep his voice still. "He kept in touch for years after; reminding me about that night and what would happen if I said anything. I got so tired of living in fear of his calls.of what he might do. A year ago, I bought a new identity and got a new life," he sighed heavily. "My wife and stepson don't even know my real name."  
  
The ex-con looked at Ramero, who was unmoved by anything he had said. Temple nodded to himself regarding his fate.  
  
"Starkin can be found in an abandoned warehouse in the Mission District, near where that Dark Wolves bust went down a few months ago."  
  
Ramero nodded, knowing that area well. He shoved Temple against the wall again who then stumbled to the floor. Ramero put his mask back on.  
  
"If you're wrong, your stepson will grow up without you."  
  
Ramero walked through the broken glass door and drew the Flight card. Temple sat there and watched him incant the wings and fly off into the night. Awed by what he witnessed, he was sure he had just been visited by an archangel of God.  
  
He painfully stood up and slowly walked up the stairs to his family. Outside, the police screeched to a halt outside his home. It was time to tell everyone the truth; his wife, his stepson, and to officers Werden and Harrison. He was surprised that the cops accepted what he said and actually darted off. They even called in for a SWAT team. He was even more surprised that his wife was going to stand by him.  
  
Two weeks later, Temple was sentenced to fourteen months imprisonment for breaking and entering and attempted robbery. As part of the plea bargain, he had fully cooperated with investigators regarding the murders of the Rameros, so the accessory to murder charges were dropped.  
  
Temple hugged and kissed his family good-bye, but his tears were tears of joy because he felt that the Lord had been merciful to him. 


	4. The Final Judgment

Part IV -- The Final Judgment  
  
The Holsum Saffola building stood silent in the night. Ramero landed on the roof corner unceremoniously. It was one of the few factories that continued to function in this decrepit part of Los Angeles, which resided next to a portion of the L.A. River. He pulled the wings to himself as he watched several security guards patrol around. This was not the right place; he knew that, but the roofs on some of these warehouses creaked like old doors in haunted houses. One hundred and seventy pounds of muscle and wings make a lot of noise on flimsy steel.  
  
He drew a card from his sleeve and knelt down on the corner of the factory building. The guards were still milling around and had not noticed him, in spite of how exposed he felt. He glanced at the card he had drawn. It depicted a woman in black with her eyes closed, but seemed to scream to the sky. A pair of fangs was visible in her mouth and bat-like wings spread out behind her. The familiar banner displayed a single word: AMPLIFY. With the card between his palms now, he murmured the word and the blackened pentagrams glowed red once again.  
  
Sounds from all directions began to flood his ears. He focused hard and built the noises up slowly. The first time he tried it, he almost blew out his eardrums. But he was in command of his power as he continued to focus, letting his mind filter out the cries of little babies, dogs barking and howling, the numerous sirens of the fire and police departments, various gunfire, the screams of women being raped or beaten, and one voice, louder than the rest, spoke of an upcoming drug deal.  
  
"So dese Columbian spics are supplyin' the goods, dat's fine. How do ya know you can trust 'em?"  
  
"I've known José for a long time. We went to high school together. He was in some international transfer student program or some shit like that. We pulled a couple jobs on some convenience stores. He's very focused and driven. Trust me, with don Vicente doing hard time at Club Fed, he's in position to supply us with what we need."  
  
"I dunno, Stark." The previous voice was so closely familiar when he had spoken, but now, confirmed with a name, Ramero could feel his blood run cold. "Dose spics can be pretty vicious."  
  
"And I suppose," the tone in Starkin's voice became more tense, "some nice white folk would cut you in for a better deal?"  
  
"Aw, no, Stark-"  
  
The sound of the first voice's body being slammed against something solid coupled with an audible grunt of pain reached his ears.  
  
"I hope.we're not having a problem with my international business contacts."  
  
"No no no! Not at all! Eh, mi casa is su casa. All da way, man!"  
  
There was a pause, then a different, much louder voice shook Ramero from his focus and the spell was disrupted.  
  
"What's that up there?"  
  
The security guards were alerted to his presence. He swiftly put away the card he had and pulled out another one. He could barely make out their guns being drawn as he focused again and muttered "Shroud." He quickly faded from view to the astonishment of the security guards. Ramero jumped from the roof corner and flapped his wings hard to get airborne. The guards puzzled over this for a few moments, then put their minds together to call the police.  
  
Meanwhile, Ramero made his way over to the warehouse that had a dim light coming from it. The temperature around him seemed to drop ten degrees as he gently landed outside the deserted looking warehouse.  
  
The cold produced a chill through his body as he dispelled his wings. He pulled out the Ghosting card and incanted its power. Within a few moments, he was walking through the warehouse wall and the crates contained therein.  
  
The warehouse was dimly lit as he approached the voices he heard earlier. Soon, he reached a concrete clearing of sorts. Completely surrounded by stacks of large crates, there were three men standing around, one armed with an Uzi. A fourth man was seated at a small, square folding table. He looked like he was going over a map; no doubt planning his drug meeting with José. All the men were black, expect for the man with the Uzi. He appeared to be Latino, but the dim light made it hard to be sure. They were all dressed casually, be it jeans, shirt and jacket or sweat gear of pants and jacket. One of the men spoke up.  
  
"Did you find dat park?" Ramero recognized the voice as the one that got smacked around by Starkin.  
  
"Yeah, I did," replied the man at the desk, which the vigilante immediately recognized as Starkin himself. "It's called Oak Grove. It's right across the street from La Cañada High School. I've been there a few times. There's like a Sheriff's helicopter pad or some shit like that right in the park or next to it, but they never search the grounds. A lot of kids go there to drink beer or get laid. It's very quiet and secluded, especially past the baseball diamond. It's perfect for meeting with José."  
  
"Dat's great, Stark. What time's da meetin'?"  
  
"One A M," Starkin replied. "It'll take about an hour to get there, so we'll leave in a half hour."  
  
The vigilante had other plans for Starkin and his men, as he quietly dispelled the Ghosting and Shroud powers. He deftly pulled out the Deflection and Warrior Strength cards and incanted them. As Ramero's power increased and a shield appeared, Starkin's second-hand man immediately recognized who he was.  
  
"Shit! It's him! Kill 'im! Kill 'im!"  
  
The Latino immediately turned and fired at the vigilante. The Angel crouched low while the bullets dropped to the floor in front of him from striking the shield. The Uzi soon ran out of bullets and now, it was his turn to attack. He wanted this to be quick, so he could take his time with Starkin.  
  
The dark hero charged viciously at the first of Starkin's henchmen. He was pretty fast and blocked a couple of Ramero's attacks. But years of training won out when the vigilante caught the crook's wrist, then used his other hand to grab him near the elbow. With a forceful yell and brute strength, he broke the man's forearm, causing the sharp bone to rip through the skin. The man screamed in pain and shock, but it was short-lived. Ramero shifted both hands to his wrists and flung him across the concrete clearing into a tall stack of crates. He loudly crashed and became buried under an avalanche of crates.  
  
The gunman finished reloading his Uzi and immediately opened fire on the dark hero. Bullets whistled past his head as he put the shield up to protect himself. He ran near the middle of the clearing, putting the second-hand man between them.  
  
The criminal barely felt the bullets enter his skull. He fell to the floor in complete surprise that his life was over.  
  
The gunman stopped firing, realizing what he had done. The Angel dispelled the shield and drew the Arrow of Light card. The last thing the Uzi-toting Latino saw was a fast sphere of light cave in his chest. The man crashed into a stack of crates about twenty feet behind him. The coroner later determined that the cause of death was internal bleeding and asphyxiation due to a collapsed rib cage caused by a shattered sternum.  
  
The vigilante recalled the Arrow of Light and dispelled it. He had finally defeated Starkin's henchmen and was breathless for the last man that stood before him. The one he had been seeking for years. The man who had murdered his parents and had set him on this dark path of protector and destroyer, in the names of justice and vengeance.  
  
There he was. Matt Starkin. The years had not been kind to him. He had grayed, put on some weight, and even seemed smaller.  
  
No. The vigilante was older and taller. But one thing was sure; the evil within Starkin had thrived and saturated his soul. It had served as guardian and best friend; keeping him alive when things got ugly in his criminal dealings and comforted him when he had the upper hand over the cops or his enemies.  
  
The icons of good and evil faced each other. Evil chuckled lightly.  
  
"That's quite a hard-on you have for me. I feel special," Starkin scoffed.  
  
Ramero's breathing had started to slow as he glared at Starkin. For nights on end, he had pictured what he would do to him if he found him.  
  
And there he was. It was finally going to end.  
  
"It's about time you got to me," Starkin said. "I'd heard a lot about you, but I wasn't sure if you were real or not." The criminal almost sounded happy he found him, as though he just found out that leprechauns existed. The vigilante refused to be psyched out by him.  
  
"Funny you mention about being real, Starkin," Ramero started, as he pulled off his mask. "You see.you created me. Our destinies are intertwined. It was inevitable that you and I would meet again. And that means you will not see the next dawn."  
  
Starkin looked puzzled for a moment as he stared hard at his opponent.  
  
"Wait a sec here.you never kill anyone. Not even that rapist you fried a few years ago. So why the fuck are you threatening to kill me?! Why am I- " Starkin blinked and recognition crossed his face, just as it had for Temple.  
  
"You're that guy I beat up in that home robbery. You're.no.no." He grinned evilly. "You're the kid that Temple stopped me from beating."  
  
"You mean killing, Starkin. You killed my parents and you had meant to kill me."  
  
The evil look on Starkin's face faded a bit, but the mirth remained. Now it was more of a sneer.  
  
"Ah, I get it. I killed your parents, so now you're gonna kill me. But you know something? That's not gonna happen."  
  
"You're right," he replied simply.  
  
Starkin was about to reach for the gun under his jacket, but his odd comment made him pause. That was all Ramero needed as he lunged forward and struck him across the jaw. Miraculously, his jaw did not break, but the force of the blow sent him flying into the large crates behind him. The dark hero moved quickly, grabbing another heavy crate and pinning Starkin with it. As he cried out in pain, Ramero darted forward, removed the pistol from inside Starkin's jacket, and tossed it aside. The vigilante had him now and his prey could not free himself.  
  
"And now, Starkin, it is time for The Final Judgment."  
  
Starkin was still too dazed to pay heed to his words as Ramero reached deep into his left sleeve and pulled out a card. He got down on both knees and focused his power. The card depicted a beautiful woman dressed in light blue flowing robes, with her hands outstretched to the left and right. In her right hand, the card's left side, she had an exceptionally bright white sphere. In the other hand, an intensely dark black sphere. She gazed down impassively at the man whose back was to the cardholder and stood about one- fourth her size. The man was being judged by a deity to determine his place in the afterlife. The familiar banner read: THE FINAL JUDGMENT  
  
The dark hero focused out Starkin's moans of pain as he loudly incanted the card's power.  
  
O powers that be  
Lend me your ear and hear my plea  
Balance a man's soul  
With your orbs of might  
Always seeking justice, always seeking truth  
And always judging right  
It is to this, my soul is bent  
This night, I summon - The Final Judgment!  
  
The warehouse began to shake violently. Stacks of large crates crashed to the ground. The vigilante's pentagrams glowed their fiercest red as he continued to focus his power. Starkin was now greatly alarmed and was convinced that one of the falling crates would kill him. A bright disc of white appeared five feet in front of Ramero and continued to grow in size, becoming more oblong in the process. Soon, it was a long oval portal, seven feet in height and four feet wide. A small, bare, womanly foot stepped through the shimmering disc of light.  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
Werden, Harrison and Striker screeched to a halt about thirty feet from the main entrance of the warehouse Temple told them about. They were the first officers on the scene and it was very quiet. The din of the main city could be faintly heard in the distance.  
  
"I think we're too late," Werden said grimly.  
  
"Maybe," replied Harrison. "Dispatch reported that shots were fired, but most likely that was in self-defense. Ramero has never used a gun."  
  
"True, but if he's here to kill Starkin, he may use whatever means he has available to him."  
  
Harrison nodded and then stepped out of the car. He opened the door for Striker, then checked his 9mm to make sure it was loaded. The spare clips were set under his side holster.  
  
"Striker and I will go in. I'll keep my walkie-talkie open to continuously transmit what's happening."  
  
"We should all go in, Harrison."  
  
"And I'd love your company," he replied. "But someone needs to tell SWAT what's going on and what to expect. Besides.Striker's better looking than you."  
  
Werden unamusedly looked at Harrison who, by contrast, sported a small smirk. The detective finally gave a little chuckle.  
  
"Again with the comedy," Werden said, shaking his head a bit. "Alright smartass, I can take a hint. Be careful and stay sharp."  
  
"You bet. Let's go, Striker."  
  
The pokémon immediately perked up and put on a professional demeanor. The two cops quickly made their way to the main entrance. Harrison paused and listened. It was still too quiet. He touched a spot opposite of the door, just as he had done at Ramero's apartment. Striker readied himself for the signal to blow the door. Harrison stepped to the side then tried the knob. It turned quietly and the door opened silently.  
  
He puzzled over the well-oiled hinges on the dilapidated door and matching warehouse. He nudged the puzzle aside and entered while giving his partner a hushed audio signal to follow him. Striker entered swiftly and without a sound. The door shut noiselessly behind them.  
  
They only took a few steps when the earthquake hit. Crates fell around them as Harrison looked up to watch for anything that might fall on them. He used his free hand to hold Striker still, so he would not bolt, as he was prone to do during a major tremor. A bright whiteness began to fill the warehouse causing silhouettes to form from the other crates. Within a few moments, the shaking stopped and the whiteness faded back to the normal illumination of the fluorescent lights.  
  
"That can't be good," muttered Harrison. He glanced at his partner who was looking as apprehensive as he was. Harrison gave a quiet command to follow and they proceeded cautiously to where the whiteness originated, listening intently for any noises. He whispered quietly, so Werden could hear him.  
  
"I hear other voices. We are proceeding forward."  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
A petite woman stood before the vigilante. Her appearance exactly matched what the picture depicted on the Clow Card.  
  
"I am honored by your presence, Mistress of Judgment. Your humble servant awaits to serve your needs," Ramero said, his head bowed.  
  
"Arise CardCaptor and request your judgment," replied the Mistress, looking down upon him. Her voice was soft, but authoritative, with a strong reverb to it. She seemed to be creating her own subtle echo.  
  
"Thank you, Mistress," he replied. Ramero stood up and bowed his head politely to her. In doing so, he was able to look at her. She was very beautiful, looking no older than nineteen, and stood no taller than five feet. But he knew she was not a being to be trifled with. He stood at attention like a soldier, putting out an arm like he was presenting her with a large gift.  
  
"Mistress of Judgment, I have called you forth to my world to pass judgment on this man: Matt Starkin. It is because of him that my magic's purity has been destroyed. He killed my parents and I wish to regain the magic's purity; to no longer carry these blackened pentagrams. I humbly ask for you to judge him."  
  
The Mistress looked at him for a long moment. Despite her youthful appearance, her eyes spoke of eons of wisdom. She knew he was lying.  
  
"I will grant your request for judgment, CardCaptor."  
  
A smile almost appeared on Ramero's lips, but he stopped it as she walked over to the trapped man and studied him carefully. He appeared no different to her than any other man or woman she had judged over the millenniums. She held out her hands, palms up. Two spheres formed, one white and one black, both were about the size of softballs.  
  
"These spheres," she started, her voice maintaining the reverb quality, "will weigh your soul. The white sphere will pull the goodness your soul contains, no matter how great or small, and will float when released. There is no pain in this. The black sphere is the opposite. The evil it absorbs will sink like an anchor on a ship. It is very painful. The two spheres will be joined together. If they float, you will be judged good and will live. If the spheres sink, you will be judged evil and will die." She paused and looked at him straight in the eye.  
  
"Matthew Roger Starkin. Is your soul prepared?"  
  
Starkin gazed back in absolute fear. He tried one last time to free himself, but was still unable to do so. His mind raced for solutions, but there were none. The evil within him, the evil that had kept him alive all these years, had abandoned him. He was done for and he knew it.  
  
Not getting a response, she went ahead and thrust the two spheres into his chest. Immediately, Starkin screamed out in pain. The spheres changed color. The white one became brighter, like a twinkling star; the black one became even darker, first taking on a glossy texture, then fading to a blackness as null and void as space itself. Starkin soon stopped his screaming, as there was no more pain. The Mistress took the spheres away. Starkin's appearance now was that of a very old man with ashen skin and hair. He was lethargic and gazed around with empty eyes. He was just a shell of a man. She looked at him and stated:  
  
"Prepare for judgment."  
  
She quickly brought the two spheres together. There was an electric crackling as she held them together. When it stopped, she turned it upright with the white sphere pointing to the ceiling. It looked like a pair of attached soap bubbles. With that, she released the joined spheres.  
  
The black sphere won easily, dropping like a stone.  
  
The ashen Starkin blinked a few times, not seeming to understand what had happened, but something in the back of his mind screamed danger. She spoke again with the same tone as before.  
  
"Your sentence will now be carried out."  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
"I can't believe we haven't found them yet. This warehouse must be huge."  
  
The two cops continued to walk between the stacks of crates. He was trying to move as urgently as possible without endangering themselves or being discovered. Suddenly, a terrified scream pierced the air and chilled Harrison to the bone. Striker whimpered quietly.  
  
"Oh God, no. No no no no!" he said quickly, the fear of failure flushing through his body. Harrison bolted to the scream; no longer was safety an issue. Another horrified scream filled the air. The next fifteen seconds felt like an eternity as he and Striker darted between the crates. The screaming stopped and a moment later, they reached the concrete clearing and found its source.  
  
Harrison looked on in horror at what lay before him. Stuck between a couple of crates was a heavily decayed corpse. The eye sockets were sunken and black. The jaw wide open, like it was still screaming. The flesh was dry and devoid of fluids, giving the body a very gaunt appearance. Harrison barely recognized the body as Starkin's.  
  
In the next instant, whatever remained of the dried flesh, rotted away and the bones turned to dust. With a loud clatter, the skull fell, bounced off the crate, and onto the floor. Apart from the clothes, that was all that remained of Starkin.  
  
"Dear God," Harrison said in shock. "What the hell did you do to him?"  
  
Ramero whirled around, wide-eyed and furious at the lawman's intrusion. The Mistress turned slowly.  
  
"I judged him," replied the petite woman. "And he paid for his evil with his life."  
  
Harrison blinked as the tone of her voice threw him off-guard, thinking it was just the warehouse echoing, but then realized that it was not. With that, he pointed his gun at her. Striker tensed for action as he awaited his partner's command. The cop narrowed his eyes a bit.  
  
"Then you're under arrest for murder," he said. Harrison quickly turned his gun on the vigilante. "You're under arrest too, Ramero."  
  
Ramero tensed up to reach for a Clow Card, but Harrison pulled back the hammer of his pistol.  
  
"If you try anything funny, I'll drop you like a bad habit."  
  
"Who are you to be judging us?" the woman asked.  
  
"I'm not a judge. I'm a cop. A member of law enforcement," Harrison replied. His eyes darted between Ramero and the short woman. "I want both of you on the ground - NOW!"  
  
"I will do no such thing," the Mistress replied.  
  
Harrison glanced at her, a little surprised. Ramero saw an opportunity. He quickly reached for a Clow Card. Harrison's eyes darted back to Ramero and he pulled the trigger. The woman made a small motion with her hand and the clockwise spinning bullet stopped about a foot away from Ramero's shoulder. With a flick of her fingers, the Clow Card that the vigilante pulled was cast aside. The bullet also dropped to the floor. In spite of the shock of what just happened, Harrison was able to react.  
  
"Striker! Flame blast! Flame blast!"  
  
The stench of brimstone pervaded the air and Striker launched his attack. The Mistress put up her other hand and the fireball exploded before it could even come close to her. She then pushed that same hand out forcefully. Both Harrison and Striker slid across the floor and crashed into the crates behind them.  
  
Miraculously, Harrison held onto his gun. In spite of the light daze he was in, he sat up quickly and fired another round at the woman. This time the bullet seemed to hit an invisible wall of force and fell to the floor. She smiled at him.  
  
"I admire your determination, Officer John Harrison."  
  
"And I'd love to have you admire some more bullets," he replied, shaking his head a bit to clear the dizziness. "But I can see that would be useless." Striker had slowly padded over to his partner. Harrison scratched him behind the ears. The pokémon was looking a little worse for wear. He wondered briefly how she knew his name.  
  
"I am able to read minds, as well as read souls," she said.  
  
"Ah. That explains it," the cop said as he painfully stood up. "So now what happens? You flutter away, so I can at least arrest Ramero? Perhaps you'll take him too, even though he's a wanted criminal."  
  
"I had intended to return to my domain, as I believed my work was finished." She turned to face Ramero, her tone became more stern. "Apparently, that was a lie."  
  
Ramero blinked once, but his expression did not change.  
  
"Perhaps you need to be judged as well."  
  
"NO!" Harrison and Striker ran quickly at them, but were stopped by the wall of force. He pounded on it with both fists. "No! You can't judge him! He subject to our laws!"  
  
"He is a CardCaptor," she said, not taking her eyes off the vigilante, "and therefore, subject to my ruling."  
  
She produced the light and dark spheres again. Ramero made no effort to run or fight, but stood there like an obedient soldier. In spite of the Harrison's pleas, she thrust the two spheres into Ramero's chest.  
  
He did not cry out, in spite of the intense pain he felt. Soon, the pain gave way to numbness. The spheres were removed and Ramero was barely able to stand. His body had aged and his skin had taken on a gray pallor. He was in a lethargic daze.  
  
"Prepare for judgment," the Mistress said.  
  
Harrison could now only watch in horror as she combined the light and dark spheres as she had done with Starkin's spheres. She let go of the combined spheres.  
  
They stayed exactly where she had released them.  
  
This seemed to puzzle the Mistress. She gave it a little push to the floor, but it floated back up to the same spot. She pushed it up toward the ceiling, but it came back down. With that, she took the spheres apart and pushed them back into Ramero's chest. Immediately, his youth and vigor returned. Ramero staggered-stepped once then righted himself. He looked a little surprised. Harrison was relieved.  
  
"Thank God, he's still alive," he said for Werden's benefit.  
  
"Well, CardCaptor," she started, "I am surprised. Your soul is in perfect balance. I can only presume that for all the hunting you have done over the past four years, you have done nothing to benefit yourself. You have saved lives, but destroyed others. Therefore, I will let you decide your fate."  
  
Ramero sighed, looking a bit dejected now. Harrison did not like the looks of this.  
  
"I'm tired of all this," the tired vigilante started. "Ever since my parents died, I've wanted them back. I've even tracked down their killers and taken my vengeance upon them, but I still feel empty inside. Day after day, there is no joy, no happiness, and no delight for me. There is only pain."  
  
Ramero stopped as a tear fell from his eye, then another one fell from his other eye. His voice softened to barely above a whisper.  
  
"I just want to be with my parents.I miss them so much."  
  
The Mistress nodded in understanding and took a step back before she spoke.  
  
"I will grant your request."  
  
"What?!" Harrison yelled, his eyes wide with shock. "No.no no no! Esteban, you can't do this! What about your aunt and uncle?"  
  
"Tell them I'm sorry. They'll understand." Ramero smiled softly as the tears rolled freely down his face. He was happy. The pain was finally going to stop.  
  
Harrison could not think of a response. He was completely helpless to stop her from carrying out his request. All he could do was watch in horror.  
  
The Mistress of Judgment clapped her hands together, then pulled them apart slowly. A sphere of pulsing white light appeared and grew between her hands as she spread them further apart. Ramero gazed upon the sphere and smiled contentedly. He was ready to see his parents again.  
  
She quickly pulled her arms apart at full length. The sphere engulfed both of them. In the next instant, the sphere collapsed with a thunderous boom. Windows shattered and other crates fell in the violent aftermath.  
  
There was nothing left. They were gone.  
  
Werden appeared a couple moments later with several SWAT teams swarming the warehouse. Werden looked around and instructed several them to mark off the skull and clothing as a crime scene. He came over to Harrison, who was holding a large playing card. It was the Arrow Of Light card.  
  
"Harrison, you okay?"  
  
Harrison pursed his lips as he looked at the card, then sighed with defeat.  
  
"It's over. He's gone.I couldn't save him."  
  
"He didn't want to be saved. You couldn't have anything that would've saved him."  
  
Harrison nodded after a moment. He was right. He knew that, but defeat on this scale was always hard to accept; especially the loss of life. But it was over. The Angel of Vengeance had been vanquished.  
  
Epilogue:  
  
"Good morning, Los Angeles. This is Steve Edwards for Good Day L.A. on Fox 11. We have a breaking story this morning about the Angel of Vengeance. We have unconfirmed reports that the Angel of Vengeance was killed in a fight with police, late last night. The LAPD have flatly denied any news coverage regarding this. We will provide further details as we get them. So stay tuned -"  
  
Captain Mark Patakas turned off the TV and sat down at his desk. Harrison sat opposite of him with Striker dozing quietly on the floor. The tired cop wished he could follow his partner's example and get some sleep.  
  
"Well John," started the captain, "you've managed to get yourself in the news twice this week. But that's not why you and I talking this morning."  
  
Harrison looked puzzled now, but the captain did not take notice. Patakas pulled out a small tape player and pressed a button.  
  
"I want you to hear something, John. I'm sure you'll recognize it."  
  
Harrison could hear last night's events being played out. He listened intently as he heard himself speak.  
  
"And I'd love to have you admire some more bullets, but I can see that  
would be useless."  
  
There was a short pause.  
  
"Ah. That explains it. So now what happens? You flutter away, so I  
can at least arrest Ramero? Perhaps you'll take him too, even though  
he's a wanted criminal. "  
  
There was a longer pause this time. Only the hiss of the tape could be heard. Harrison furrowed his brows. What the hell is going on? he thought. Then he heard himself again.  
  
"NO! No! You can't judge him! He subject to our laws!"  
  
Patakas stopped the tape. Harrison was very confused, but managed to ask one question.  
  
"Captain.who edited the woman's voice out?"  
  
"The tape is straight from the reel," replied the captain. "Nothing was changed or altered."  
  
Harrison was floored by this, but the surprises were just starting.  
  
"I've read your preliminary report about this short mystery woman. The upper brass did too." Patakas stopped for a moment, not relishing what was going to happen next. "They've decided to bury it."  
  
Harrison felt his face go numb, paling at what he just heard his supervisor say. His stomach sank like a rock.  
  
"The brass, in their infinite wisdom, felt that the public just isn't ready for 'other worldly beings' that can judge others. It would be like discovering that the pantheon of Greek gods were actually real."  
  
Harrison shook his head a bit and came to his senses.  
  
"What?!" he shouted, waking up Striker. "Fire breathing dogs were thought to be a myth, Cap." He pointed at Striker. "He doesn't look like a mystical creature to me!"  
  
"Look, I don't like this any more than you. I'm just following their orders. But so you know, if you do say anything," Patakas stood up and leaned over his desk, "you'll get fired and never work in law enforcement again."  
  
Harrison was speechless. He felt like he had been kicked and beaten by an angry mob. He stared intently at Patakas, then stood up. He was ready to give him his gun and his badge and just end his career with the LAPD.  
  
But he could not unball his fists to do it.  
  
"Fine," he said finally, his voice was low and curt. "But tell brass for me that they can fuck themselves and their 'infinite wisdom.'"  
  
Harrison stood up, turned and left Patakas' office. He slammed the door shut with a loud bang. He made his way through the maze of desks, cops and criminals and eventually reached his own desk. Werden was seated there.  
  
"Good morning," Werden said sarcastically.  
  
"Yeah.it's been a real gem of a morning. God, I just can't believe they're just gonna bury it."  
  
Harrison just stood there, fuming and cussing harshly. His livelihood had been threatened and there was nothing he could do about it. Worse yet, all the time and work he put into this case had been for nothing.  
  
"Just let it go, Harrison," said Werden. "There's nothing we can do about it. And if we do, we get fired and neither of us wants that." Werden stood up and straightened his jacket. "C'mon, the taco truck is here. They make some killer breakfast burritos. It'll be my treat."  
  
"I wanna go to bed," replied Harrison, his tone matching his fatigued body.  
  
"Well, hey, you're a cheap date." Werden grinned at him now. Harrison looked at him, then eventually broke into a tired laugh.  
  
The three cops walked together toward the taco truck. The humans shared the misery of their forced silence. They would keep the secret world of the CardCaptors to themselves. Someday, the world would know, but that was a long way into the future. For now, the Angel of Vengeance would live on in spirit and Esteban Ramero was finally at peace.  
  
THE END 


End file.
